


The Worlds We Make: a fanfic poetry collection

by lemurious



Category: Classic Science Fiction - Fandom, Firefly, Frontier Worlds, Neverwhere - Neil Gaiman, The Martian Chronicles - Ray Bradbury, Wayward Children Series - Seanan McGuire
Genre: Gen, Poetry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-06
Updated: 2020-09-06
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:40:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 1,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26314294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lemurious/pseuds/lemurious
Summary: Most unusually, _not_ in Tolkien/Silmarillion fandom.Fan poetry as tribute to the creators who have shaped me throughout the years. I have been writing these, very intermittently, for a while, and figured they should have a home somewhere.Chapter 1: For you, a doorway...  (Seanan McGuire's Wayward Children, and the fantasy worlds we build to escape into.)Chapter 2: You think you're giving me the world (Frontier sci-fi (think Firefly), and the heroines who are expected to lose their thirst for adventure once they are married to the heroes.)Chapter 3: A fairytale of rockets, incomplete (Ray Bradbury and classic sci-fi, and building your own fantasies and seeing breathtaking wonder in rocket launches.)Chapter 4: The witch who used to haunt Potrero Hill (Neil Gaiman's Neverwhere, and tent cities under overpasses, and people who have fallen through the cracks.)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 6





	1. For you, a doorway...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For Seanan McGuire's Wayward Children series, which speaks to my heart and continues to keep me going through every rough patch in life. And the stories and the worlds we all build, to escape, to share and to leave behind.

for you, a doorway  
wardrobe, cellar, mirror  
the gateways to our stories,   
the ones we hear, the ones we read, and then the ones in which we write ourselves  
they teach us to be courageous, and kind, and keep our promises,  
and some of us will trust them,   
and then they'll break our hearts

for you, a doorway  
wardrobe, cellar, mirror  
for me, the patterns in the bark and leaves, perhaps a bird up high atop a chestnut tree,  
my gateways to the worlds  
invented, not discovered, but the ones to keep   
when growing up became a certainty, and not a choice

i heard i was supposed to build myself a fairyland  
complete with castles, princesses,   
perhaps a talking horse and dragon fire  
my worlds had rockets, guns and dinosaurs 

i had a true imaginary friend when i was six  
he flew a spaceship from a bright blue star  
(i only had to squint to see the color)  
as soon as i convinced my friends of his existence  
their parents started calling mine   
i promised not to tell the stories  
i swore, as in an old folk tale,   
that it was not real, was never real, and not intended to be real  
my heart remained intact  
back then reality was just a word, a world to be avoided  
destroyed in battle after boarding rockets to a dream 

to dreams within dreams within dreams as i grow old  
and all my dreams are lucid  
a spiderweb of memories and histories that span decades  
for use as private gateways  
it took me years to realize my father dreams of stories too  
our dog-eared favorites have always shared a taste for heists and darkness  
and now i wonder if we've ever met in dreams  
before our dreams become the only place for meeting

we might presume to set proud anchors in reality   
but in the end we all painstakingly create our worlds   
by stacking up our worries, doubts, and wistful promises  
that world where everything confirms your fears of being worthless   
one where your sharp retort came late and you remained unscathed by the fight  
another where you didn't dare to snatch that kiss  
another where you did, and it did not transform   
into an avalanche that falls from lips in daily quarrels  
the worlds discarded every time we've made a choice

i chose escapist worlds instead, confounded paths and minor quests, and not because they're real  
i never thought they were,  
because _i_ was, as long as i was on the way

for you, a doorway  
wardrobe, cellar, mirror...


	2. You think you're giving me the world

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by all the frontier sci-fi: Firefly, the Soothsayer series... and the fact that in typical stories that have a "happy" ending the heroines (and to some extent the heroes too, but mostly, the heroines) tend to give up their adventures in exchange to supporting the families. Though there may not be any need to look at fiction for it to happen, either...

You think you're giving me the world:  
It runs on gears, and steam, and wishes.  
All three in short supply these days.  
I'm making do with domes and hydroponic gardens.  
I'm known for new varieties of strawberries.  
I lost the taste at our wedding.  
I'm serving them as you walk in, your jacket pockets stuffed with lasers,  
An ancient orrery in hand.  
Back then a single solar system was sufficient.  
The planets used to ride on rails.  
Now Mercury is missing, Europa hanging by a thread. The rings of Saturn bent.  
I see you're anxious for approval.  
It does befit a husband  
To come with gifts that must have cost a fortune.  
It does befit a wife to proclaim her extraordinary luck  
In having found a husband who brings her orreries to fix.  
I take it to my room.  
I know I only need an hour and it will run like new.  
An hour drowned in smell of soldering and music of the engines.  
They used to say there's nothing that I could not fix  
Before, when time was always short,  
Before, I rarely think about before, when our galaxy ran small for me,  
When I was wishing for stability and titles.  
I got my wishes, left my life of gears and steam, did not look back.  
Do not look back, but down into the model,  
My face reflected on the side of Jupiter. Unrecognizable.  
I used to make ships run. These days, I run our business like a ship.  
The first to give commands in an emergency, the last to leave.  
They praise us as a team.  
We are efficient, and ambitious, and in love.  
With every satellite we buy and sell I wish it turned into a falling star.  
I wish it brought a hail of meteors, a hurricane of solar flares, a flood of liquid helium.  
A storm to swallow wives and engineers alike.  
But businesses and husbands have a constant need for schedules.  
I tell you I have lost my knack, it's been too long,  
The orrery remains in pieces.  
I lock the door and cut my fingers straightening the planets.  
You've given me the world. It's only fair you took mine in return.


	3. A fairytale of rockets, incomplete

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In memory of the innocence with which I devoured Martian Chronicles and all the classic sci-fi as a kid, and still finding the most breathtaking beauty in rocket launches...

There was a king who had three daughters, the youngest was a desperate, unruly child...

Stop. That was a mix-up. There is no place for you in fairytales.

Let's start with rockets. (You always start with rockets.)

Like silver locusts raining down the Martian skies,

Or landing in your backyard to announce you've been selected for a rocket-man...

(You never failed to turn it to a -woman)

R was for rocket, S for space, you added K for kosmonaut yourself.

You memorized their faces and learned to read Cyrillic for their names.

You took your heroes from the skies, not from the stories.

Would not admit how often you imagined that it was your father who became a spaceman,

That you were searching for a dome on Venus on the rainy days.

You used to watch the Milky Way down in the country, in your grandma's garden,

And made your wishes on the shining galaxy instead of falling stars.

Eventually you decided you moved on, felt so sophisticated and dreamed of California.

In your imagination it was just about as far as Mars.

You live in California now, and think of rockets.

You spent ten, fifteen, twenty years on careful discrimination

Between the topics that were dreamable, and those that would inevitably break your heart,

And then one summer all the walls came down without a warning and turned your life into a jumble sale

Of quarter century of rocket dreams, of wishes coming true and heartbreak always hounding them in shadows,

You'd never had a place in fairytales, although you tried to build one once,

Had read enough of them to know there'd be a price to pay,

But, in the end, you'd never want a happy ever after if there was universe left to explore

More beautiful and terrible than any story could conceive.

You clasp your hands and still your breath to watch the rocket launches,

And listen to ignition sequence as a magic spell,

You wish upon the galaxy to have a hand in Martian Chronicles, the documentary edition

And look at stars for the creation and the afterlife.


	4. The witch who used to haunt Potrero Hill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Neverwhere re-imagined in the Bay Area, among the tent cities and the people who inhabit them, having slipped through the cracks at some point in their lives.

We memorize the rules and skip through cracks.  
Shut out the wolves,  
and scare away the ghosts.  
The chains inside the walls would creak in cheer, if anybody were to listen.  
And far below our feet, there is another story.

She lost the power of her word, her secret name,  
fair price for the survival.  
We build whatever homes we may when fairytales run dry.  
Though secretly she still believes she is a witch,  
does not belong inside the tent unless it grew a rooster’s leg and hopped into the forest.

Under the bridge,  
(a troll) (a toll) to pay.  
A penny for your thoughts,  
a penny for the news,  
into the shaken cup.  
A fair price, this,  
pay up,  
or beg,  
or borrow,  
there’s nothing left to steal.  
When counted, called and weighed at crossroads,  
and empty lots, and overpasses,  
by glamours guarded, we may yet make it through  
the blessings of the day, the curses of the night to come.  
Familiar, familiars, fiercely held against the darkness,  
conceited city rats and pigeons strolling by  
a sleeping figure in the doorway. 

The eyes to pierce,  
the wings to ride,  
the tails to hang on,  
the tales for which to hang.

The cracks to fall through, as she drowns.  
Because the water never holds a witch,  
and neither did the streets.

The city rushes overhead. What’s in a drowning?  
No matted hair, no grimy cauldron, no cackle, and no curse. 

Suspicion glimmering inside the cracks just at the edge of focus:  
How deft your cantrip,  
How delicate your charm,  
How quick your hex,  
How strong is your conviction,  
How will you end your quest?


End file.
